


cold and happy

by vashtaneradas



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Christmas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:56:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vashtaneradas/pseuds/vashtaneradas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>airports close, siblings get sick, cars get slept in, and somehow they all end up doing christmas together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	cold and happy

**Author's Note:**

> own nothing/know nothing/obviously. completely fictionalised.
> 
> title from brendan maclean's song of the same name
> 
> part of the bella-tries-to-move-all-her-writing-over-to-ao3 marathon of 2013.

Louis wakes up to the sound of a bowl clattering to the floor and Michael Buble singing We Wish You A Merry Christmas.

Standard, then.

He smiles as he stretches and gets out of bed, yawning and running his hands through his hair as he opens the door and pads down the stairs. He’s perhaps slightly hungover – so sue him, it was his twenty third birthday yesterday and regardless of who’s coming for Christmas, he’s going to get drunk on his birthday – and stumbles into the banister as he turns the corner.

"Fuck,” he mutters, wincing and rubbing at his hip as he rounds the corner, “motherfucker.”

“Merry Christmas to you too,” Harry says without taking his eyes off the turkey he’s basting, and Louis’ head snaps up at his voice. And, well. He’s such a fucking sight Louis wants to die.

His brow’s all furrowed, biting his tongue in concentration as he follows the recipe with his index finger, one eye on the words and one on the turkey. Louis’ pretty sure every kitchen appliance, utensil and dish they own is spread over the counter and Harry’s pyjamas are almost totally covered in the contents of their fridge.

Louis hums with laughter as he walks over to Harry and hugs him from behind, kissing him on the cheek and turning the music down.

“Morning, sunshine,” Louis says, getting a mouthful of curls as he does so. He feels Harry smile, spoon clattering down on the bench as he turns in Louis’ grip and hugs him properly, giving him a kiss.

“Hi,” he says, a little sleepily – although he always sounds sleepy, really – “You gonna give me a hand?”

Louis smirks at that until Harry rolls his eyes and waves him off, turns back to what he was doing, leaving Louis to flick the kettle on.

“How long’ve you been down here?” he asks curiously, surveying the trail of destruction Harry’s left through the kitchen. The brandy butter’s half in it’s bowl and half splattered over the counter, turkey here, ham there, potatoes peeled and seasoned and about four different deserts either in the fridge or the oven or the sink (he doesn’t know, either.)

“A while,” Harry muses, “couple hours. You all annoyingly hungover?”

“I’m fine,” Louis says, hitting him gently, “you do know this is just my family, right? It doesn’t have to be a fucking banquet, darling, I’m sure it’s gonna be great.”

Harry raises an eyebrow at that, watches for a moment as Louis takes a teabag down from the shelf.

“Right. I don’t expect you to understand this because my mother’s in love with you, but Lou. Your Mum hates me enough as it is, I’m not feeding her dry turkey on top of that.”

“She does not hate you!” Louis exclaims, nearly dropping the kettle in indignation before taking a sip of his tea, “she just loves me. Like, a weird amount, and she gets suspicious of people who claim they do too.”

He smiles obnoxiously at that, hopping up to sit on the counter, until Harry throws a glace cherry at him and he yelps a little – a little – girlishly.

“You’re a moron,” Harry says, “I’m right, you know. She thinks I’m a dropkick. She said that once, so what jobs are there with an English degree, dear?”

“It’s a fair question,” Louis points out, laughing and planting another kiss on Harry’s cheek as he turns, outraged, wooden spoon in hand, “no, no, I’m kidding. You think she likes my learning to teach kids fucking drama any better?”

“Lou, you could commit high treason and she’d still think you were the second coming of Christ.”

Louis opens his mouth, but he can’t actually argue with that. It’s entirely true, so he waves Harry off and offers him a slice of toast, which he takes gladly.

“I’m telling you, babe, it’ll be fine. Don’t worry about it, okay? It’s Christmas,” he says grinning, jumping off the counter and dragging Harry by the wrist behind him, “now come open your present!”

Harry lets himself be pulled out of the kitchen, watching with a smile as Louis starts fossicking around underneath the tree, sorting through all the presents he’s wrapped. He comes up triumphantly seconds later, steering Harry to the couch with a stupidly big smile on his face, bouncing around like a ten year old.

“If you don’t like it, or whatever, we can change it, y’know. But I think you’ll like it. It’s a good present. Like, I don’t even know if it’ll work out, though, if you can get—“

“Lou,” Harry says, eyes dancing with laughter, “let me open it first, yeah?”

“Yeah, course,” Louis says, all sheepish and cute, and Harry can’t help but laugh delightedly and pull him in for a kiss, casting the present aside for a moment.

“That my shirt?” he asks against Louis’ lips, hands slipping underneath it, and Louis nods.

“Problem?” he asks, smiling and Harry just shakes his head, kisses him properly now, pulling Louis into his lap and—

Louis’ phone rings shrilly on the coffee table, frightening them both.

“Fuck,” Louis groans, pulling away from Harry and looking at the caller ID, “fuck, it’s my Mum.”

Harry sits back heavily against the couch, pushing Louis off him and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Answer if you want,” he says a little mournfully, and Louis winces as he takes the call.

“Hi, Mum,” he half-squeaks, clearing his throat to regain some semblance of normalcy as Harry snorts with laughter, “yeah, Happy Christmas to you guys too. Hi, girls,” he says with a smile as one or two of his sisters yell into the phone. Harry’s properly laughing at the slightly disoriented sound to Louis’ voice, so he turns away with a grin. “Everything okay, Mum?”

His expression changes from fond to concerned in a matter of seconds, making Harry sit up and take notice.

“Well are they okay?” he asks quickly, and Harry hears his mother’s reassuring tone echo through the phone.

“Okay. Yeah, Mum, sure. Sure. Okay. I’ll try and come up after New Year, yeah?” he asks, pausing for a reply. “No he’ll understand Mum, it’s fine. Sure. Okay, tell the girls I’ll call them tonight. Love you too. I’ll tell him, it’s okay, I hope they’re okay. Yes, Mum, the heating’s working fine. We have plenty of food. Yeah. Mum? We’re fine. Love you too. Bye.”

He scrunches his face up as he hangs up, looks at Harry guiltily.

“Is everything okay?” Harry asks immediately, jumping up.

“Yeah, it’s just…the twins have food poisoning. Apparently they went to some friend’s house for lunch yesterday, they’re these proper odd people who live two doors down from us; when I was a kid they used to—Anyway. Point is. They’re not coming.”

Harry opens his mouth, then closes it and shrugs.

“Okay,” he says simply, sitting back down.

“I’m really sorry, Hazza,” Louis says, pouting a little and curling back up next to him, “I know you worked all hard and everything.”

Harry smiles, shakes his head. Louis will never understand his ability to let everything and anything slide without getting the least bit annoyed.

“S’fine really. We’ll still eat it all, right? Or we can, I dunno, give it to a soup kitchen or something. Like good people, y’know.”

Louis laughs, kisses him on the jaw because he can’t reach higher without moving and he really doesn’t want to move, on account of the fact it’s fucking cold and he’s not wearing trousers.

“You’re the best, y’know that? But why don’t you ask your Mum down? It’s only a short drive, she could make it.”

Harry just leans away and blinks at him a little disbelievingly.

“Lou,” he says slowly, “Lou, we…we’ve had this conversation like four times this week. Are you joking?”

Louis gapes like a fish, looking round the room as though there’s a clue hidden somewhere.

“Louis!” Harry cries, throwing a cushion at him, “oh my God, we’ve talked about this like every day this week. She’s in Australia! Visiting my sister, remember?”

“Ohh,” Louis says, eyes widening, because he’s not even trying to be a prick, this particular fact just keeps slipping his mind, “yeah, course. Sorry.”

Harry just snorts and pushes himself off the couch to go make more tea, rolling his eyes. Louis supposes that he’s probably made Harry a little more world weary than a twenty year old should be. And oh God, Harry’s twenty. He’s had this realization every year on his birthday since they’ve been going out, when December 24th marks the beginning of those weird two months where they are, numerically anyway, three years apart. He knows of course, logically, it doesn’t mean anything but it still freaks him out, being three years older than his boyfriend. Which is so fucking dumb, because he’s pretty sure Harry’s never thought about it a second in his life, but—

Brrrrrrrring, brrrrrrrring. His laptop rings tinnily through the house, his Skype lighting up with a call.

“Who is it?” Harry calls from the kitchen, and Louis picks it up with a sigh to have a look, before his face breaks into a grin.

“Zayn,” he calls back, “probably him and Liam calling from Majorca.”

“They went to Madrid, Lou, Jesus Christ, what is it with you and having it in for people on holiday?”

“I do not have it in for anyone,” he squawks, “I just—“

“Answer the call,” Harry shouts with a laugh, and Louis would retort right back but Harry’s probably right so he hits the little green button with a smile.

“Lou!” Zayn’s voice comes through the speaker a second behind the picture, and Louis can’t help but laugh at the sight of him. His hair’s all messed up, eyes tired, and he’s so obviously fucked out that Louis wants to hang up on him out of spite.

“Morning, mate. Had a nice yuletide shag, then?” he asks with a smirk, and Zayn just rolls his eyes, turns the computer so Louis can see Liam fossicking around for a shirt on the ground and flipping him off at the same time.

“Hang on,” Louis says with a frown, “why are you in your flat? Aren’t you meant to be in Macedonia, or something?”

“Now you’re just being a cunt,” Harry says matter-of-factly behind him, handing him a cup of tea as he perches next to Louis on the couch and grins at the camera, “hiya, Zayn. Liam give you a good Christmas present, then?”

“Shut up,” Zayn says, probably to them both, and they giggle into each other’s shoulders, “but yeah, supposed to be in Madrid, our flight was yesterday. Heathrow got shut down though, fog or summat. So we’re stuck here.”

He seems genuinely upset, though perks up a bit as Liam crawls back into bed next to him and slaps a kiss on his cheek.

“What are you two doing today, anyway?” Liam asks, hopping back into bed and turning the computer so they’re both in shot.

“Shagging, mostly, I expect,” Louis says in grave seriousness, “just as Jesus would’ve wanted.” He pauses for time delayed laughs, and Harry just shakes his head a little disbelievingly, because really.

“Nah, nothing much. My family bailed, Harry’s are all in…”

“Australia,” Zayn, Liam and Harry chime together, one considerably more exasperated than the other two.

“Right. Australia. So we’re sat at home with what I think might actually be half the world’s Christmas food supply courtesy of one H. Styles.”

Harry doesn’t respond to that other than taking the spoonful of sugar he’s got hovering over his own mug and dumping it in Louis’, who turns slowly to look at him in utter disbelief. Liam and Zayn watch for a moment, if only because they’re kind of fascinated at the state of high drama these two seem to continuously exist in.

“When you’re done,” Zayn says dryly, and Louis shoots Harry one final reproachful glare before turning back, “Li and I were wondering if you maybe wanna spend the day together? Y’know, since we’ve all had our plans fucked up.”

“Oh my God, yes,” Harry says immediately, “seriously, come to ours, we’ve got so much food. Also good heating. Also Love Actually on DVD.”

“Sold,” Liam declares, “when d’you want us? Couple hours?”

“Whenever you want mate, sounds good. Also bring booze,” Louis tacks on, half yelling, “like. A lot. My Mum was meant to be bringing ours so we’re running low.”

“See you later,” Harry sing-songs, Liam waving at them both as he checks his phone. Harry goes to hang up, but is cut off by Zayn’s voice.

“Oh, by the way,” Zayn asks, “anyone know where the fuck Niall’s got to?”

**

Niall, as it turns out, is asleep in his car.

“Your car?” Louis asks incredulously minutes later over the phone, motioning for Harry to come over because he’s fairly sure he’ll want as many different memories of this conversation as possibly.

“Yeah. My fuckin’ car,” he says despairingly. “I was meant to go home for Christmas, see, but I missed my flight and by the time I was meant to book another one the airport had fuckin’ closed, or something. I don’t know. Anyway, I get to my flat, right, and I’d left my keys at the airport, but it’s Christmas Eve, y’know, so you can’t get a fucking locksmith for love or money and my landlady’s in Canada, or something—“

“Niall?”

“Yeah, Lou?”

“Come over for Christmas lunch, okay? It’s just gonna be the five of us.”

“Oh. Yeah, mate, that’d be—you sure?”

Louis smiles. “No, it’s a cruel prank designed to ruin your day. Course, mate, see you soon yeah?”

“Want me to bring anything?”

Louis and Harry swap a glance at that, because honestly.

“Niall. You’re living out your car.”

“Right. See you in an hour or so.”

**

Louis, sappy as it may be, has always loved Christmas. He likes the Bing Crosby CD on repeat and his family wreaking havoc in every room of the house, he likes the paper strewn everywhere and the way the kids’ eyes open in a state of shock that all those presents really are for them. He likes it when his grandma brings out her plum pudding and the way his mother’s bitter sister will invariably mutter a less than favourable comment about it. He likes the girls dragging him outside to play in the snow and doing the huge clean up with the other family members who, like himself, are put on the job because they certainly don’t have the skills to cook. He likes the little kids asking him every year how come he gets a glass of champagne if they don’t, and he likes the tree and the songs and all of it, really.

This one isn’t like those family Christmases at all, but it’s a lot of fucking fun.

Niall turns up about an hour later, hair a mess, clothes creased and clutching a box of half eaten Cadbury Favourites and a ten quid bottle of wine. Louis can’t help but laugh as he walks in, collapses on their couch and shivers at the blissful heat.

“I don’t care how much sex I’ll have to hear going on, I’m moving in,” Niall declares, “Merry Christmas, by the way.”

“You too, mate,” Harry smiles, pulling him up and giving him a hug, “rough night?”

“You don’t even know,” he mutters into Harry’s shoulder, following the two of them back to the kitchen where Harry’s borderline obsessively checking the turkey, “Landlady’s not back till the twenty-eighth and I have work tomorrow. I’ve got nothing to wear.”

“Borrow something of ours,” Harry suggests, kicking Louis as he dips a finger in the cranberry sauce.

“Yeah but Haz, you’re about seven feet tall. And Lou, no offence mate, but I’d rather not look like I’ve sprayed my clothes on out a can while I’m serving people half price drinks.”

“Oi!” Louis squawks, slapping him over the head, “get fucked. You can go spend Christmas in your car, if you prefer.”

The doorbell rings at that, and Niall smiles at Louis as he goes to open it.

“Love you, Lou!” he calls obnoxiously loudly, and Louis just flips him off.

“Ignore him, he’s hungry,” Harry mutters, and Louis most definitely hears it but won’t stoop to his level and respond. Instead, he throws the door to the flat open, eyes widening at the sight in front of him.

“Hey, Lou. Happy Christmas!” says a beaming Liam, adorned under his coat in a Christmas sweater only a mother could make. What’s perhaps more concerning though is that Zayn’s wearing a matching one, with the green and red switched around in his pattern. They both look grossly happy about it too, and Louis can’t help but squint as though he’s got a headache.

“Take your fucking couples clothes off or I’m slamming the door in your face,” Louis says in mock (kind of) disgust, “but Merry Christmas, guys. Come in.”

Zayn wraps him up in a lazy hug at that, snow on his coat almost instantly melting as he steps inside. Liam heads straight to the kitchen, putting down the cardboard box full of alcohol they’ve bought (Louis really, really loves his friends) and greeting Harry by way of a startlingly loud Boo that causes him to nearly drop whatever dish he’s taking out of the oven.

A bottle of wine, a batch of slightly burnt potatoes and two calls from friends later, they finally find themselves at the table, Louis dealing out kind of shoddily carved turkey and Zayn zipping round the table pouring everyone another drink. Harry’s sat next to Niall looking a little exhausted but mostly just happy, laughing as Liam threatens to withhold Zayn’s beans if he doesn’t stop stealing sips of his beer.

“Shut up, everyone,” Louis says loudly, “we have to be adults and, like, toast something.”

“You should toast me,” Harry says, poking Louis in the ribs, “you’re meant to toast the cook.”

Louis smiles, leans across the table to kiss him. “Well I’d love to, but it’s not very fair on everyone else, is it?” he asks. Harry laughs, nips playfully at his lip and eliciting a communal ew from the other three.

“Oh shut up,” Louis says, “you all wish you had a boy who could cook this well. Or girl, if you’re Niall.”

“Cheers, mate,” he says, still holding up his glass. “Anyway, what the fuck are we toasting? ‘Cos I’m starved.”

They all look between each other for a moment, because no one’s got any idea. Never leave an act of eloquence up to a group of slightly inebriated college kids, Louis thinks idly, it’s bound to be underwhelming.

“I dunno,” Liam says thoughtfully, “my Dad always used to toast like. Achievements and shit.”

“Same,” Zayn muses. They all laugh at that, because honestly. Their collective achievements this year include successfully consuming half a thirty person bar tab between the five of them in under two hours, moving into flats not plagued with mould, turning in the same essay on Keats and not getting caught (Harry and Zayn), making second string football (Niall and Louis) and not failing introduction to aeronautical engineering (Liam). None of that seems toast-worthy, really, and so Louis decides to take it upon himself to get the ball rolling.

“To general mediocrity,” he says, raising his glass, “and may we hope to have done some actual toast-able shit by this time next year.”

He’s met with four glasses clinking his own and a fondly exasperated headshake from Harry. He blows him a kiss before he takes a drink, because why not.

**

“Well I’m fucking beat,” Zayn declares a couple of hours later, sitting back and yawning as the sun sets at the grand old time of four o’clock. They’ve been eating for the better part of the afternoon, food mostly gone bar a couple of slices of turkey that Louis’d tried to drunkenly carve and failed. Harry’s swinging back in his chair and laughing like an idiot while Liam clears the table, slapping Niall’s hand away as he goes for the leftovers on everyone’s plates.

The rest of them all murmur their agreement and get up, and after a halfhearted clean up that lasts about three minutes, all slink off into the lounge, too full and warm and drunk to have any thought of doing the dishes. Harry looks a little troubled at the crap just strewn round the dining room, but seems to lose concern as Louis rolls his eyes and drags him away from the sink.

They have two perfectly functioning couches but all end up on the floor instead, surrounded by cushions, two half-drunk bottles of champagne and (somewhat grotesquely) a bowl of whipped cream. Love Actually has found its way into the DVD player and as the opening credits roll, Harry throws an arm round Louis who snuggles right into the touch, throwing a couple of blankets over all five of them before resting into Harry’s side. Niall and Liam are talking quietly and Zayn’s already asleep against Liam’s shoulder, brow furrowing slightly as Liam shifts underneath him to have a sip of champagne.

And as usually happens when a room’s vaguely quiet and he’s comfy and tired, Louis starts to think.

He thinks about Christmas and his birthday and decides that maybe it doesn’t really matter if he’s technically sort of three years older than Harry for a couple of months. He thinks about his family back up north, misses them. But strangely, he’s kind of glad they didn’t end up coming. It’s not that he doesn’t want to see them, or anything, he loves them dearly. But today was just…really nice, or something. Because cringefully nauseating as it might be, the four people he’s spent the day with kind of are his family now. Have been since he was nineteen and moved to London not knowing anyone or anything, and he’s suddenly insurmountably grateful that they’re here with him.

He thinks about the tickets to Paris he’s bought Harry, still unopened thanks to the mayhem of the day. He thinks about how wide Harry’s eyes are going to be when he reads them, how much he’s going to make a fuss and insist on paying half until Louis’ll have to shut him up with a nipple twist or blowjob or both.

And it’s just, he’s really happy. He loves this so much, Christmas, the snow, his friends. He wonders if in ten years this’ll become a thing between the five of them, doing Christmas together. If they’ll look back on this and laugh and say remember that first one where we toasted mediocrity and were cramming over Winter Break, remember how Niall’d slept Christmas Eve in his car and how all the airports had shut down, remember how we all fell asleep watching Love Actually like middle aged women, remember how good that day was.

Harry presses a kiss to his head at that, and he smiles, tips his head back to look at him. His hair’s all in his eyes, apples of his cheeks slightly flushed, and he laughs a little breathily before kissing Louis properly, brushing his fringe out of the way. Zayn has apparently woken up enough to make a gagging sound and it just makes Harry laugh more, buzzing a little on Louis’ lips.

And, like, he’ll blame it on Hugh Grant twirling the love of his life round and round in an airport if anyone asks, but really, Louis is maybe a little bit emotional.

“Merry Christmas, Lou,” Harry says, resting his head on Louis’, “think we can kick ‘em all out soon so I can give you your present?”

“No,” Zayn says immediately, “we’re finishing this movie, it’s my favourite thing. You can have a shag later.”

Louis just snorts, pushes Zayn’s face away and is met with a handful of cream slapped on his right cheek.

Standard, then.


End file.
